


The Wider Sun

by all_seeing_aye



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Affection, Canon-Compliant, F/M, Frank in recovery, Frank is sad and directionless, Frank takes a depressing road trip, Gen, Karen will appear, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Not Beta Read, POV Frank Castle, Post Season 1, Pre Season 2, Slow Burn, let's be sad about Gunner too while we're at it!, mentions of suicidal ideation, rated m for being dark, vague references to Maria because why should any of us be happy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-05-18 09:03:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14849829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/all_seeing_aye/pseuds/all_seeing_aye
Summary: He doesn't know how long he's been waiting to feel something like the clouds parting.(Frank rests, after.)





	1. Duvet

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this work is also the title of a beautiful, heartbreaking song by Jon Hopkins. It's instrumental, so give it a listen while you read.

      Frank has decided that he’s no longer waiting to die.

      The problem with that, however, is that he no longer knows what to do with himself.

      The aftermath is confusing, to say the least, not like it was the last time. Injuries, depositions, getting David’s family affairs squared away had all been things to think about, to handle, and they kept reality from setting in when it should have. He’d helped get David all set up in a motel; it was just for a week or two, because David felt that moving back in with Sarah and the kids right away would be too sudden, even though Sarah disagreed. Frank tries to understand it, and he’s pretty sure he’s getting better at that part, but it still gives him that sickening gut-deep feeling (it feels like falling) and he knows that if he were given the opportunity, he would never wait. Fuck awkwardness and distance and nerves, fuck all that shit, if he had a home to go back to…

       But reality catches up with him and hits him all at once as he steps out of the community center after group, after he admits he’s scared. The late autumn wind cuts through his layers and bites at his skin as soon as he’s out the door, but he doesn’t even notice.

       He’s tired. He’s in pain and he’s tired. And he’s scared. All the wars have bled out of him. He was supposed to be done fighting by now, done years ago. He’d promised as much. And he’d had a chance to go back, go home, and he’d let her go, because war was his home now except even that home is gone, too. And he is tired.

       He stands there in the doorway, still against the icy wind, and wonders quietly how he hasn’t put a bullet in his skull by now. And then he sets off toward the parking lot, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, his mind as empty as he can force it to be.

 

* * *

 

 

        He spends three days at a decent hotel sleeping it all off, after it hits him. He’s not young and green anymore, and he thinks he might heal slower than he used to. All he knows is he’s tired down to his bones and he needs to rest for real. He made sure to pick a place with decent beds and soft sheets with big fluffy duvets, the kind of cushy indulgent shit he always caught himself dreaming about while he was deployed, sleeping on a cot when he was lucky and the ground when he wasn’t. It’s on Long Island, near the water. It’s a lot quieter than the city.

        He still looks like hell warmed over, but it’s been just over a week since the carousel, so the bruising on his face has just started to turn more yellow than purple. It’s late at night when he checks in and the lights in the lobby are dim. He doesn’t get any odd looks from the receptionist. He lies down on the bed as soon as he gets to his room, and he’s asleep before he can even finish telling himself to take his boots off.

 

     

* * *

 

 

        Curtis calls him on the second day to see how he’s doing, and he answers the phone and they shoot the shit, talking about nothing. Frank forces himself to laugh when it makes sense to laugh and he keeps his answers short; he wasn’t in the mood for a phone call, especially since they’re both talking their way around the subject of Russo, a wound that’s still too fresh for either of them to touch. Frank isn’t in the mood for anything. All he wants to do is sleep and let his bones knit themselves back together in some semblance of the way they had been connected before. He doubts he was ever whole or put together right, but he at least wants to walk without a limp and a grimace.

       He keeps the radio on while he sleeps to give his mind something to grab hold of when he wakes up, and he sleeps in odd increments, letting the days blur together. Six hours here, a careful shower, three hours there, channel surfing. He eats a steak he ordered from room service while he watches some drama on a premium channel. The steak’s medium rare, a good cut with a good sear. He doesn’t taste a bite of it. He hurts all over.

       He goes back to sleep.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first fanwork! Thank you so much for reading. I know it's a little short, but I'm still getting the hang of this!
> 
> I do not have an editor or anyone who betas my work, so it gets published a little slower than usual.
> 
> I'm pretty busy for the next two weeks, but I should be updating periodically after that!


	2. Kentucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for the chapter:  
> -"A Chronicle of Early Failures Part I" by The Dead Texan

 

      It’s about noon on the fourth day when Frank decides he’s getting stir crazy. His ribs feel better and he can breathe easier, at least, and that makes it harder for him to accept sitting around on his ass all day, even though he’s still exhausted. Realistically, he should take it easy for at least another week. Two would be even better. He doesn’t feel like being realistic. He looks out at the water while Waylon Jennings croons about lonely cowboys from the alarm clock’s tinny radio. He’s carefully avoiding the Christmas music that’s started playing on pretty much every other station; this one only has a few more days before it begins playing nothing but Irving Berlin and Nat King Cole.

      The song ends. A cheesy disco hit starts playing. Frank goes cold as realizes he knows every word. He used to sing along to this when it came on in an attempt to annoy whomever else was within earshot, and he sang especially loud if it was the kids. The memory almost knocks the breath out of him, a strange mix of bittersweet comfort and deep, yawning pain. He hasn’t been that person in years.

      He barely remembers what it felt like. That terrifies him.

      He listens to the rest of the song, then turns off the radio and begins packing his things.

 

* * *

 

 

      Frank knows he should deal with the fact that he’s technically homeless. His last place had been paid month to month in cash, an arrangement that had been necessary but also convenient; it allowed him to disappear without anyone caring to look for him. He doubts he can find another cheap, nondescript place in Brooklyn that won’t inquire about his credit or his identity. Homeland had given him a good amount of money, but they hadn’t exactly been thorough in constructing the Pete Castiglione alias. There hadn’t been enough time. Knowing Madani, which he isn’t sure he does, she probably expected him to have David help with the minor details since the legality of the whole affair was beyond questionable. Frank makes a mental note to call David later.

      In the meantime, though, Frank needs a place to sleep, and even though he doesn’t have to worry about money for at least a little while, he’s uncomfortable spending as much as he is on this fancy hotel room. He checks out on the fifth day and gets a shy smile from the receptionist.

       “I hope you had a nice stay, sir,” she says as he hands her the room key. He figures she’d noticed how rarely he’d left his room, but she doesn’t seem bothered by it.

       “Yeah. I, uh, just needed a little vacation,” he responds, making sure his voice is warm. He’s been in too many situations where people keeping track of his comings and goings had been a bad thing; he has to remind himself to treat her harmless comment for what it is.

      “Well, you look relaxed. I don’t mean to be too familiar, but you seemed really tired when you checked in,” she says, and it makes him tense up. He examines her face for a threat, and he doesn’t find one. She’s just a normal young woman who feels good will for a stranger. It’s a hard concept for him to grasp.

_Pull yourself together, asshole._

      “I feel all better now,” he says, and this time he smiles back as best he can.

 

* * *

 

 

      He thinks about staying with Curtis, but he dismisses that idea as soon as he has it. Curtis was still healing from his wounds, too, and Frank can’t stand the idea of putting him through any more trouble, even if it’s just giving up his couch for a couple nights. Curtis had been through enough on his account. Everyone had. Curtis had been shot, Gunner… _Shit._ Frank had dragged Gunner into his hell, and it had gotten him killed, and he hadn’t been able to go back for him. The broken promise rings in Frank’s ears.

      He’d missed Gunner’s funeral service. Even if he had been in any physical condition to attend, his official status as a dead fugitive would have prevented it. Gunner wasn’t married, didn’t have any siblings, and his parents had passed just like Frank’s had. On the uncommon occasions that they’d had the time and the desire to talk about real shit while they were in Kandahar, they’d discussed it. Gunner had been thankful for it, because it meant his job wasn’t keeping any loved ones up at night. At the time, Frank had wondered what it was like, living without that guilt.

      Again and again, bitterly, he wishes he’d never learned.

 

* * *

 

 

      Frank makes the trip out to the national cemetery in Kentucky where Gunner is buried; he figures he can stay in motels on the way and worry about getting a place later. He takes his time. He’s in better shape than he was, but he’s still not in any condition to sit in a car for ten hour stretches.

      He stays in a dingy motor lodge in West Virginia on the first night. The mattresses are lousy and the sheets are threadbare. He decides he prefers this to the plush comfort of the expensive hotel in Long Island. The man he is now fits better in a place like this. Maybe the man he was before, too.

      The cemetery is quiet and still, hidden among the trees. There’s frost on the ground when he gets there in the early morning. A monument stands guard in the very center- a soldier made of bronze atop a white marble pedestal, white like the neat rows of grave markers. Frank walks in silence to Gunner’s plot. He stands there for a long moment before taking a can of cheap beer out of his pocket and placing it in front of the stone.

      “You were always bitching about the dry deployments,” he says quietly. “Every mission, I’d hear you under your breath, at least once. ‘God damn, I could go for a beer.’” He grimaces at his own impression of Gunner’s accent; that memory had been amusing, right up until now. He continues. “Annoyed the shit outta me. Figured the least I could do is bring you one.”

      He steps back and puts his hands in his pockets. He's not good at this. It takes him a while to think of anything else to say. He settles on the simplest thing, the truest thing.

      “I’m sorry, brother.”

      He walks away.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Hey, why is this so goddamn bleak?"
> 
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> (Also, I know a lot of the characterization and details changed from Daredevil to The Punisher because that's the way these things happen, but I'm bringing some of them back.)


	3. Remembered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for the chapter:  
> -"Steep Hills of Vicodin Tears" by A Winged Victory For The Sullen

       After he leaves the cemetery, he drives to an isolated nature preserve- there are lots of them around here- and takes a walk, reminding himself every few minutes that he can stop looking over his shoulder. No one is hunting him; he’d taken care of that.

      The sky is pale gray; his breath puffs ahead of him in the cold air while he walks. The trail is well marked and maintained even though it’s in the relative middle of nowhere. There’s a creek up ahead with a bridge spanning over it and a gazebo with benches in a clearing just beyond that. Frank guesses that he’s only able to see that far ahead because it’s winter and the trees are bare. He’s instinctively comforted by the increased visibility.

      He has an abridged copy of The Count of Monte Cristo with him that he’d picked up at a used bookstore before he’d left New York, and he sits down in the gazebo to read it. It hadn’t been one of Curt’s recommendations. Still, he’d been supposed to read it in high school but he’d been too busy picking fights, so he figures he’ll start now. Sitting out in the cold for hours while he reads won’t do any favors for his injuries; he doesn’t care. He reads until he starts to lose the daylight, and then he walks back to the van and returns to the motel.

 

* * *

 

 

      Frank likes this part of Kentucky. He’d been all over each coast since he’d joined the Corps, but he hadn’t seen much of this part of the country before. He’s a born and bred New Yorker, but he likes the quiet small towns out here. He likes that there aren’t many people around to cast a second glance at him if they think he looks familiar. He’s growing his beard out again. He still has a few weeks to go before it obscures his features effectively, though, and the wound on his head still shows, since it had been reopened and re-stitched. He’s been moving around at night and keeping his hood up to hide it. He’s assessing the state of his bruising in the motel’s grimy bathroom mirror when it occurs to him that the receptionist at the first hotel had probably recognized him. She should have seemed more frightened, or at least been more concerned for her own safety; it's not like she had any idea the news wasn't telling his story right. Frank chuckles. It reminds him of someone else he knows.

      He doesn’t feel like going into town to get dinner, and he’s trying to avoid showing his face too much to the motel clerk, so he doesn’t eat. He showers to warm himself up- he’s normally pretty hardy about the weather, but even he gets cold when he’s outside for hours in December- and reads until he falls asleep with the book open across his chest.

 

_There’s dust everywhere, and he hurts everywhere. His hearing is muffled and shrill. His heart’s in his throat as he reaches forward towards her, wraps his hand around her neck, lacing his fingers through her hair- please move, please breathe, please- and he searches for the wound he’d hoped he’d never have to feel again. His fingertips find nothing but her soft hair, the color of cornsilk. Her skull is intact. She is unharmed. He hears her moan a breath as her hand presses into his chest, just over his heart. Her pulse is steady; he can feel it where his palm grazes her jawline. She’s there, in front of him, alive. He looks her over just to be sure. The relief stuns him._

_Suddenly, he feels grass on his cheek, and the ground becomes soft underneath him. The dust melts into warm sunlight. She’s no longer moving and the panic is wildfire rushing through him, the recognition- he sees green leaves in the trees behind her- her eyes are glassy- there’s blood in her hair, hot under his fingers-- a blinding pain sears across his head-_

      Frank surges awake, writhing with horror. He sits up and drops his head into his hands; he distantly feels himself trembling. He’s drenched in sweat.

      He feels sick with shame. He’s lost without his old nightmare, the familiar one that woke him every morning- at least he had grown used to it. This one makes him feel like he's drowning. He struggles to calm his breathing. He hadn’t had any nightmares for the past week. He hadn’t had any dreams at all. He thought he’d left it behind, moved beyond that one small thing, but it had just been that dream. This version is new.

_She’s fine. She’s alive. She’s been near you and followed you into the shit, led you into it, and she’s walked away. Every time._

      He lies back down, still breathing heavily, reminding himself she’s okay. He’d made sure of it. He always would. He’d never let himself make the same mistake again.

      The flood of adrenaline is slow to recede, and it takes him forever to fall back asleep. When he does, his last thought is of his hand on her neck and the faithful rhythm of her heartbeat.

 

* * *

 

 

      “Hi, David.” He’d finally gotten around to calling.

  
       “Hey, Frank,” David responds. He sounds a little surprised, even though he must have known it would be Frank when he’d picked up the phone. “Where’ve you been, man? I’d kinda expected to hear from you.”

      “What, you think that we’re gonna be all friendly now just because you faked your death and saved my ass?” Frank smiles. It feels good to hear a voice he knows.

      “Was that- no, was that almost a thank you? That can’t be right. You’re not having an allergic reaction to something, are you?” David’s voice is distorted by the phone, but it does nothing to blunt the force of his drawling sarcasm.

      “Easy, or I’ll take it back.”

      David laughs. “Alright, I’ll back off. What are you calling about?”

      “I was, uh, wondering if you could help me get a bank account set up. Since, you know, I’m technically… I’m technically homeless.”

      A pause.

      “Uh. Yeah, of course, Frank, I can help you with that. Under Pete Castiglione, right? Your new identity?”

      Frank nods, then remembers he’s on the phone. “Yeah, that’s the one. Look, I don’t want to trouble you or anything, I know you’re moving back into the house soon.”

      David laughs again. “It’s not a big deal. It’s actually been messing with my head. Not having enough to do, I mean.” Frank hears a breath and senses a change in the tone. “I’ve been fielding a lot of questions about you, to be honest, when I talk to the kids. Leo’s been asking how you’re doing.”

      His breath hitches. Some dormant corner of his mind- the one that remembers cutting the crusts off peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and putting Band-aids on scraped knees- stirs. It takes a little effort to keep his voice even. “She has, huh?”

      “Can I tell her you’re okay?” David asks, hesitant. If he has any mixed feelings about his daughter adopting Frank as the world’s scariest pseudo-uncle, he’s polite enough to keep them to himself.

      “Yeah,” Frank says. “Actually, tell her I’m on a vacation. Ask her if she knows what book I should read next.”

      “I’ll do that. And Frank?”

      “What?”

      “Let me know if you need a place to stay, ‘til you get settled. We have a guest room.”

      “I’ll keep that in mind.” He knows he won’t accept it; he’s intruded too much into their home already.

      “Good. I’ll call you back when I’ve handled your accounts.”

 

 

      He gets a text a few hours later. _She says you should read Jane Eyre._

 

* * *

 

 

That night, his dreams are peaceful, full of the sounds of little voices through a distant receiver and phone calls from home. He doesn’t remember it in the morning.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Frank hasn’t examined how he feels about Karen, he hasn’t even considered it- he just feels it. I think that’s still where he is. I think he only consciously realized how important she is to him when he told David. She’s important. It’s a fact. He hasn’t had the time to calm down and define it or ask why, or even feel guilty about it. But I’ll shut up before I get too meta.
> 
> Can you imagine if Leo had recommended Esperanza Rising? It was the only book I could think of for a while, but even I don't want to write something as depressing as Frank reading that book.


	4. Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for the chapter:  
> -"A Silver Lining" by They Dream By Day

 

       Frank sleeps late and wakes up to a voicemail from David. He’s got everything figured out, but he didn’t know where to have Frank’s bills and new credit card sent, so he used Karen’s address. Apparently it’s the only one David remembered off the top of his head, since he’d installed the camera over her fire escape- he says he hopes that’s alright.

       Frank swears under his breath and snaps the phone closed.

       He hasn’t spoken to Karen since the hotel. He hadn’t even thought about contacting her until recently. Discovering Billy’s betrayal had hit him like a freight train, and it hadn’t left room for anything else, not once he’d made sure she was safe. He’d sat on the waterfront that night with shrapnel still in his arm, waiting until it was safe enough to flee Manhattan, almost paralyzed by wrath and grief and confusion. It had blinded him. But then everything else had happened, almost all at once, and there had been no time. And after everything… He hadn’t been able to figure out what to say. An unhinged piece of shit with a manifesto and a death wish had gone after her because of her connection to him, to his crusade. He’d put her in the crosshairs. He’d almost hoped she had realized that after what she’d gone through in the hotel, that she wanted nothing more to do with him. That her sense of self-preservation no longer had a blind spot where he was concerned. He’d gotten her hurt. She’d been held hostage, almost been shot. What could he have possibly said after that?

_Goddamnit, David._

       Frank had planned on waiting at least a few more weeks before speaking to her again, and not just because he had no idea what he’d say. He’d wanted to wait until his face had healed. He’d seen the pain in her eyes in the elevator, heard her voice echo- “ _I actually care what happens to you-“_ and he didn’t want to put her through that again if he could help it. He couldn’t prevent her from feeling for his pain, but he could prevent her from seeing it. He’d thought that he no longer had anyone who suffered because of him, and not for the first time, he almost resents Karen’s compassion. It was easier to bleed without it.

       Frank’s still in bed. He sets his phone on the pillow next to him and stares at the ceiling, considering. Now he has to figure out what he’s going to say, and he’s never been good at talking; the thought makes his gut twist uncomfortably. He lies there in the silence for a while, but nothing comes to mind. He breathes a heavy sigh and gets out of bed.

 

* * *

 

 

       He eats a cheap diner breakfast before getting back on the road. He’s finally started to feel better even though he likely won’t be fully healed for at least another week, given the extent of his injuries. He still takes two days to make the drive back to the city, though. Driving makes him sore, and he doesn’t want to rush back when being on the road is so quiet. He keeps the radio turned off.

        He’s been driving for a day and a half and he’s almost halfway across Pennsylvania when his phone rings. He doesn’t have the number saved in this phone, but he recognizes it right away. It’s Karen. _Shit._ He picks up and doesn’t even get a chance to grunt a hello before-

       “Why am I getting credit cards in the mail for a person named Pete Castiglione?”

       Frank can’t help but smile a little at her stern tone. She’s in full I-will-get-the-truth-out-of-you-or-so-help-me mode, and it’s very effective. He’d hate to be one of the people she chases down for a story. In any case, she’s willing to speak to him. She shouldn’t be, but he’ll take it.

       “I didn’t know you had this number,” he replies, dodging her question.

       “I keep getting envelopes with new phone numbers and the initials ‘F.C.’ in my mailbox at my building. You know, you could just call me and tell me. The cloak and dagger act is a little over the top.”

       “It’s not me. Honest. Didn’t even know about it.”

       She snorts. “Somehow that seems unlikely.”

       “Remember that guy I was working with? Micro?” he asks, and gets a hum of confirmation in return. “He’s the one who handled the communications side of things. I get the phones from him. If you’re getting my number, he’s the one giving it to you.”

       “Well, then, tell _him_ to just call me next time,” she responds. Then she sighs. “I guess I’m not terribly upset about it. I heard about what happened in the park and figured it was you, even though DHS rushed in to clear it up pretty quickly- I’m missing the specifics. But I got the envelope with this number a few days later.” She pauses for a breath, and her voice softens. “It’s how I knew you were okay.”

       Guilt clutches in Frank’s chest like a hot fist. “Listen, Karen…” He trails off; this is what he doesn’t know how to say.

       “I don’t want to talk about this on the phone, Frank,” she says. She doesn’t sound angry; he hears disappointment, but more than that, concern. Understanding.

 _I don’t deserve it._ Every time he had tried to keep her at a distance, out of his life that barely deserved the word, she had followed. She’s too goddamn stubborn; he’s too weak to keep trying. She had been the first touch in his new life that hadn’t been meant to kill him- soft as down, with iron beneath it. And she was still alive, even after dancing into his orbit with her take-no-prisoners determination and her adamant kindness. The comfort of that after everything that had happened, the impossible, death-defying safety of her- it's heady, like heavy painkillers. He's become addicted, he realizes, all of a sudden. It almost stuns him.

       “Just… come by and get your mail, okay?” she asks, pulling him from his thoughts. “I’ll hold onto it for that Pete guy.”

       He feels the corner of his mouth twitch. “I don’t know if you’d like him. He’s kind of an asshole.”

       “I think I’ll make him some coffee and figure that out for myself,” she says, and he can hear her smiling, just a little bit. “And I’d like to meet David, too. He sounds-“ a beat, and Frank can picture her face, forehead crinkling, lips parted with amusement- “interesting.”

       Frank laughs. “That’s one way to put it.”

 

* * *

 

 

        By the time he makes it back to the city, there’s an inch or two of snow on the ground. The ugly gray slush lines the sidewalks and melts into slick puddles in the gutter. In a few days it’ll be cold enough for the snow to stick, dusting everything with a fine layer of powder- _like powdered sugar_ , Lisa had said when she was little, about five or six, and it had made Maria laugh and roll her eyes and groan. _Great, now I want French toast. Thanks for that, hon._ It had become a tradition after that, as soon as the snow that fell on the front lawn overnight didn’t melt away in the morning, to make French toast. She’d said that traditions were important for the children, to help ground them and give them a sense of stability when Frank was away. She’d heard it at one of those military family support presentations she’d attended back when she’d been pregnant with Frankie and he’d been sweating his ass off out in some goddamn desert halfway across the world. (He’d never felt Frankie kick in Maria’s belly- the first time it happened, he’d heard about it a week and a half later in a phone call that lasted barely fifteen minutes, and then he’d come home to a baby boy and the birth on a home video.) They’d always tried not to talk about the reasons they pulled these traditions out of thin air. The kids always made an absolute mess out of the kitchen, and he’d swear to Maria that he’d spent hours scrubbing dried egg and flour off the countertops, pretending it bothered him. She’d fire back that _he_ hadn’t been the one who had to wash syrup out of Frankie’s clothes, and they’d scowl at each other as if they were angry until someone broke. If he was deployed and he missed the first snow, he’d get a picture of the kids in the kitchen making breakfast in his next letter from home. He usually wouldn’t get the letters until February. His last deployment had started in the fall, and he’d missed the holidays. That year, the breakfast pictures hadn’t arrived until early March, and Frank Jr. was frowning in all of them.

       Frank tries not to think about the snow.

       He can’t ignore the fact that it’s wickedly cold, though, and it pushes his plan to sleep in the van a little beyond the realm of possibility, so he hits up a sporting goods outlet. He buys a warm jacket, two sub-zero sleeping bags, an air mattress, and several thick blankets to keep in the back, along with better socks and thermals. He spends the night parked on a rundown block in Long Island City, somewhere no one would call the cops on a guy sleeping in his car. He hasn’t slept out in cold like this since Kandahar; a few winter nights there had dipped below freezing while he and his unit had been out in the field, tracking targets and conducting raids in the foothills at the base of the mountains.

       He wakes up early, as usual, and he’s stiff from the cold, with chapped lips. He’s uncomfortable, and he doesn’t know if that means he’s getting old or just getting soft. He’d wanted to do the latter, of course. He’d told Maria- he was getting out. He was going to get used to soft beds and air conditioning and ice in his water glass and waking up next to his wife every morning. The familiar feeling of falling opens up underneath him again. That door is closed, he reminds himself, and there’s no amount of blood he could spill that could open it. Not unless he spills all of his own, but he thinks then of a maybe- maybe he has reasons, now, and it's a good thing he no longer bleeds so easy. Maybe. He thinks of borrowed books and borrowed blood and cornsilk hair. It all becomes a deafening static in his head. He struggles to make his mind quiet, and after a few minutes of stillness, he does.

       In any case, he can’t keep living in his van. He pulls out his cell, dials Karen’s number from memory, and listens to the ring.

       “So you said you want to meet Pete Castiglione?”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, but I'll be back to regular uploads after this!
> 
> They did it, guys! They actually spoke to one another! And it's all because David's a meddling asshole. He's definitely acting on Sarah's orders, because she found out Frank had an emotional connection to a living woman and said "dammit, someone needs to give that man an actual goddamn hug." 
> 
> Feedback is appreciated!  
> (This chapter is clunky and my excuse is that finals were also happening.)


	5. Lights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for the chapter:  
> -"Of Course It's All Things" by Lowercase Noises

_This is stupid._ _I shouldn’t be here._

               Frank watches his breath cloud in the cold air as he stands in the alley behind Karen’s building, waiting for someone to leave so he can slip through the door after them. They’d agreed to meet on Saturday at noon at an out-of-the-way park in Queens. David was going to meet them there. Frank would introduce them, Karen would give him his mail. But that was still two days away, and he hadn’t even told her where he was the last time he’d called. He certainly hadn’t warned her he’d be dropping by. Not that he’s even sure he’s going to go through with it.

               It’s after dusk, and it’s snowing. Hell’s Kitchen is a gray and unfeeling place in the winter. The yellow streetlight catches the snowflakes and makes them shine, but everything else on the street looks murky and grim. There aren’t many people out on the sidewalks. Frank ducks his chin into the upturned collar of his jacket. He’s getting tired of the cold, but he’s thankful for the snowfall; it softens the city noise that’s normally so pervasive this close to Times Square.

                It’s mid-December, and reminders of the holiday season are becoming inescapable. He’s been sitting in silence for days, avoiding restaurants and the radio, spending as little time as possible in stores because it’s the only kind of music anyone is playing. He glances up at the fire escapes on the buildings that line the block. A handful of them are decked out with strings of Christmas lights, twinkling white and red in the near-darkness. There’s one directly across the street festooned with fat, multicolored bulbs, the same kind he used to staple up around the garage doors. The kids had preferred those. He looks away.

                He leans up against the brick wall of the building. He knows he shouldn’t go inside. He should turn around, walk back to his van and drive away, meet her when he said he would. He looks back at the Christmas lights and then shuts his eyes. He’s being a coward. He shouldn’t drag Karen into whatever… whatever he’s feeling. But it’s been growing since everything had ended- a deep, numbing emptiness. He barely remembers the drive to her building, what came over him, what brought him here. There’s only the emptiness, and he’s quietly suffocating in it.

 _I don’t know why I’m here._ _I don’t know where else to be._

               A car drives slowly down the street, and as the driver rolls down the window to tap ash off the end of their cigarette, a few words of a song escape. _Please have snow and mistletoe, and presents on the tree-_ and then there’s a rushing sound in his ears, like static. It blocks out the eerie almost-silence of the city in the snow.

               He looks up when he hears the building’s front door open. A young man shivers against the sudden chill and lifts his bicycle down the steps. Frank waits until the door has almost shut before he pushes through it. He pauses at the bottom of the stairwell- _what the fuck am I doing here-_ before something wordless compels him upward, and he climbs the flights to Karen’s floor. He raises his curled fist to knock, then decides against it. He texts her.

_I’m outside._

               He hears footsteps inside the apartment. The door opens and Karen’s looking down at her phone and clutching a jacket under her arm. She nearly walks straight into him before she notices him and flinches back, her hand flying to her chest-

               “ _Shit-_ Frank, I thought you meant you were outside my building.”

               She relaxes then, her shoulders easing slightly, but her pulse is still up, and he can just barely see it under her pale skin as he watches her neck. He remembers the feeling of it, affirming and true and steady under his thumb. She’s still in her work clothes. The cuts on her face have faded to thin white scars, the kind that won’t last. _Good._

               When he speaks, he’s surprised to find that his voice is slightly uneven. Distantly, through the nothingness, he feels ashamed.

               “I, uh- hi. Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s just that-“ She has that sharp, unblinking look in her eyes- “Can I come inside?”

               Karen spends another moment watching him. She takes a short breath in and releases it almost as quickly. “Yeah. Come in. You look pretty spent.”

               “That bad, huh?” he mumbles, humorless.

               She puts her hand on his forearm and guides him through the door. He feels her hand squeeze a little when he pauses over the threshold.

               It’s warm and dimly lit inside the apartment. There’s a little artificial Christmas tree in the corner, no more than three feet tall, and there’s a candle burning on the kitchen island. Frank removes his beanie and holds it in both hands, not sure where to go from here.

               “Go ahead and sit down,” Karen says, gesturing to the couch. She crosses the apartment and she’s barefoot again. Frank didn’t even notice her stepping out of her shoes. “I see the beard has made a reappearance,” she quips gently, but it’s unplayful, almost cautious. For a woman capable of such fury, it surprises him how shy she can be about greetings. But maybe that’s just with him.

               “Yeah. It helped with the whole incognito thing before, I decided to give it another chance,” he replies. He still hasn’t moved from where he’s standing.

                “I don’t mean to make you feel unwelcome when I say this, Frank, but you usually don’t show up without a reason.” She turns and leans against the island, waiting for his explanation. Her expression is guarded.

 _I couldn’t think of anywhere else_ , he thinks, but he doesn’t say it.  

               “Right. Sorry. I- I was wondering if I could use your shower? I haven’t found a place to stay yet, and it’s- it’s a bit too cold for me, if I’m bein’ honest.” His voice is still unsteady, and he can barely make eye contact with her. The warmth of the apartment after so long in the cold is almost intoxicating. It feels strange.

               “Frank? Where have you been staying?”

               “I have an air mattress in my van.”

               Everything about her softens as she approaches him, and her voice is quiet. “Of course you can use my shower, Frank. You shouldn’t be out there in the cold like that.” Her brow furrows as her gaze flicks to his right temple, then back to his eyes, and then her hand is on his arm again, with such a gentle pressure that he’s not sure she decided to put it there. He tries not to lean into it. He shouldn’t be here. He’s too wrung out. “Jesus, Frank, what you did to yourself getting me out of that hotel… you can use my shower,” she says, and crosses her arms tightly across her ribcage after she says it. She hesitates, then- “Where have you been?”

               It occurs to him that it’s not the first time she’s asked him this.

               “Hotels, mostly,” he says. “Went to Kentucky for a few days. After- after everything was over…” He grimaces, and she looks away. “I was pretty beat. Spent a few days in a hospital while the suits argued about how to sweep everything under the rug. Fuckin’ CIA.” Karen’s face hardens at that; he knows that if it were up to her, the names Rawlins and Russo would be splashed across every front page from here to DC along with their crimes. He doesn’t mind. Their guilty blood on his hands is enough justice for him. He continues.

               “I bet the mail gave it away, but, uh- they gave me an alias and some cash. Erased my prints and everything. I am officially Pete Castiglione now.”

               “I don’t know, Pete, you look a lot like Frank Castle to me,” she says wryly, but there’s softness when she speaks again.  “How long have you been sleeping in your car?”

               He looks down at his boots. “Couple days.”

               “Frank…”

               He remembers the Christmas lights outside and speaks before he can stop himself.

               “It’s the holidays, right? Everyone always tells you those are the worst.” He pauses, searching. “I don’t know what to do about it. There’s nothing I can do about it.” He can’t continue.

               “I don’t think anyone ever knows,” she says.

               All he can do is nod and let his eyes fall shut. The numbness is receding now that he’s here, leaving that heady, disarming comfort in its wake. He’s almost afraid of it. Exhaustion floods through him and he remembers something Curtis had said once, that Frank had that Marine instinct to fall asleep whenever he had a safe place and a spare moment. _I guess this is a safe place._ It’s the quietest thought he’s had in a long time.

               “You’re falling asleep on your feet. Go get in the shower,” Karen says more matter-of-factly now, composing herself, stepping away from him. The absent space she leaves behind almost feels cold.

               “Yes ma’am,” he obliges, and does as he’s ordered.

 

* * *

 

               Karen uses generic body wash and name-brand shampoo. Frank showers more slowly than usual, letting the heat of the water seep into him.

               Frank realizes as he uses Karen’s shower gel that he doesn’t recognize the scent, and that bothers him. With the number of times she’s been pressed up against him… But she’d almost always smelled like gunpowder and sweat. He recognizes the scent of her shampoo, though, from the last time he’d been in this apartment.

               He’s out of the shower and wrapped in a towel when he hears a knock at the door. He opens it before it occurs to him that he’s hardly dressed. Karen’s holding out a pair of navy blue sweatpants.

               “I hope wearing my clothes isn’t too weird for you or anything, but these are too big for me. I thought you might be able to use them, they’re more comfortable than jeans.”

               Frank nods and takes them from her. They’re worn and soft, with the remnants of a college crest where the light blue print hadn’t flaked off; they must have belonged to someone else before her. He begins to shut the door.

               Karen’s eyes fall to Frank’s bare chest and she gasps so quietly he barely hears it. He looks down and remembers that the bruises around his ribs are still visible- yellow and green, mostly healed, but still there. Not to mention the scars, old and new.

               “Yeah, uh, I guess you haven’t seen all that yet,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant. It doesn’t have the desired effect. Her eyes start to shine. She reaches out and hesitates before putting the palm of her left hand against his bruised ribs and the fingertips of her right against the wound where Gunner’s arrow dug into his shoulder. Frank tenses and tries not to shudder. No one has touched him like this in what feels like a lifetime, long enough for him to have almost forgotten that it’s not a threat. His skin is white-hot where hers touches it.

               “No. No, I have not seen these yet,” Karen says, and her voice is hard now. Her eyes search his body for the remainder of his wounds and her hands travel to his right arm, where the explosion in the kitchen had embedded a piece of shrapnel the size of his palm. The wound has only recently healed over, thick and raised and still pink. She runs her thumb over it. He braces for the rebuke; he doesn’t get one.

               “That one’s on me, I think,” she says, almost impossibly quiet. She’s staring at the scar.

               “No. Karen, that is not on you,” he says, anger surfacing through the feeling of her hands on his bare skin. “He was- he was fucking unhinged. He wanted to hurt you. He was trying to kill you, Karen, I-“ he cuts off, voice breaking. There’s that wordless panic rising up in his chest, even though she’s not in danger anymore. He clears his throat to speak again, trying not to choke on it. “I told you I wasn’t going to let that happen,” he says, rough and quiet. He thinks he might be shaking.

               She’s looking straight at him. He’s so tired, and he can’t find words anymore because this, this is what he isn’t good at, and the memory of seeing her on the floor of that hotel room begging for someone else’s life is more than he can bear, so he lets his head fall forward and he presses his forehead to hers. It’s all he knows how to do. She doesn’t move away. This time there are no pursuers, no rush to flee. She’s here and he doesn’t have to run. He thinks he should anyway.

               “It’s okay,” she whispers. “I’m okay.”

               This time, when she embraces him, he doesn’t freeze; he wraps his arms around her waist and breathes out a little too hard and a little too unsteady. She holds him tightly, but then- as always- she steps away first, before he’s ready. She clears her throat and gestures to the sweatpants, clutched forgotten in his left hand.

               “I’ll let you get dressed,” she murmurs, face unreadable, and walks away.

 

* * *

 

               After Frank dresses in Karen’s secondhand sweatpants and the black sweatshirt he’d been wearing, he finds her sitting on the couch. She’s in different clothes now, too, flannel pants and a loose cotton sweater. She’s holding a mug of tea, something that smells herbal, and sitting with her feet tucked up under her. The television on the wall is playing, but there’s no volume.

               “You look comfortable,” he says quietly, so he doesn’t startle her.

               She looks up at him and smiles, and says, “You do too. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you barefoot before.” She sounds amused.

               “Careful, you’re makin’ me self-conscious,” he says as he settles on the couch next to her. He feels strangely sheepish and he’s trying to figure out what to do with his hands- should he grab a throw pillow?- when he hears her speak again.

               “Speaking of- sorry. About earlier. I didn’t mean to… to pounce on you like that. About your scars.”

               He looks over at her and finds her staring into her mug. He’s glad of that. He doesn’t think he could take the blue of her eyes right now.

               “Don’t be,” he says, and then he grimaces. Grief stirs quietly, just out of reach. _Be honest._ It takes him a while to get the words out. “It’s comforting to have that, again.”

               Karen’s expression remains unchanged, but he can feel her tense up through the movement in the couch cushions, and he can see her knuckles go white around her mug, where the sleeve of her sweater barely reveals them. A wave of guilt hits him; he keeps forgetting that his grief is no longer his own. But it claws its way up out of him, like a trapped animal, and escapes. He’s having trouble thinking straight.

               “I’m sorry,” he says in a rough whisper. _Nice going, asshole._ “God, listen to me, like the grim fuckin’ reaper.” He makes a move to stand up. “I should go.”

               “None of this is fair,” she says, voice shaking. “To anyone.” Then she looks at him, and her eyes cut through him like ice, and suddenly he can’t move- “Frank, did you really come here just for a shower?”

               “I don’t want to drag you down with me, Karen-“

               She doesn’t waver. “Tell me why you’re here.”

               Defeated, he sits back, but his eyes still flicker around the room for a few moments. They settle, unfocused, straight ahead. He clears his throat.

               “No,” he murmurs. “No, I didn’t come here just for a shower.” He can’t look at her. “I- I didn’t know where else to go. Sleepin’ out in the cold, it makes me sore, right? But I’m tired of hotel rooms. I need…” He trails off.

               “You need a place to stay?” she asks.

               “Yeah. Something like that.” _Something like home_ , part of him thinks _._ “Couldn’t really bring myself to ask. Figured it would be a bit much.”

               Silence hangs in the air between them, and the red and blue light from the fire escapes and the yellow light from the street lamps floods through the window, pooling softly on the floor and tangling in her hair like watercolors. She sets her mug on the coffee table.

               “You can stay here tonight.”

               He looks at her again, unsure. “I don’t want to be any trouble.”

               “You saved my life,” she says, more firmly now. “And I didn’t even thank you. And then I didn’t hear from you, and- Jesus, Frank, I’m not going to let you sleep on a goddamn air mattress-“ and then she’s leaning toward him, and her arms are around him again and his hands rise reflexively to hold her by her waist and he really needs to stop letting her surprise him-

               “It’s nice to have you here,” she says, and he can feel the hum of her voice in his hands and against his chest as she speaks. She’s warm, and her chin is resting on his shoulder. Her heartbeat is steady. “It’s no trouble.”

               “If you’re sure,” he says.

               “I’m sure.”

               He closes his eyes and nods. “Then I’ll stay.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "What the hell kind of slow burn ends with scar-touching and then a hug?" This kind, apparently.
> 
> This chapter has been mostly written for weeks so I decided to post it instead of endlessly editing it. Things came to a natural conclusion in this piece before I meant them to, I'm sorry. I honestly meant for there to be more! Thanks for reading and commenting and leaving kudos, I'm really grateful to you guys for being supportive and I have LOVED all your input and suggestions! ! You guys had better ideas for this fic than I did :P I might expand on it.


	6. Absolution

               _The buzz of the fluorescent lights scratches at his ears. The background noise is that of a hospital- ventilators, heart monitors in every room, the murmur of nurses and doctors and worried spouses. His mind is television static, thousands of small knives of disbelief and pain ripping into him, but underneath that, there’s a triumphant, bloodthirsty roar: his prey is here. Close. Injured. A sure kill, a rat in a trap. No one there to protect him but some paralegal in a pencil skirt, the one he'd seen leaving the bar._

_The words beat a deafening tattoo against the inside of his skull._

_One batch. Two batch._

_He stalks down the wide corridor. A security guard approaches- Frank disarms him. A nurse shrieks. Frank raises his shotgun as he rounds the corner and out of the hospital room runs a woman in a white blouse with blue flowers (Maria was wearing a dress like that) with her fist full of the collar of a man’s hospital gown. Terror paints her cheeks with uneven patches of pink as she yells, dragging the man down the hallway toward the stairwell. It’s the man Frank’s here to kill. He aims._

_Penny and dime._

_He fires. The man drops to the ground and cries out, blood blooming through the thin fabric of his gown in scattered spots. He begins to drag himself across the smooth tile floor. The woman doubles back, grabs him under the shoulders, yanks him forward. Her blonde hair has fallen loose. She looks back at Frank and begins to plead._

_"No, no, no, please-“_

_He ignores her as he racks another round, raises the gun to his shoulder, aims-_

Frank surges awake and the fear courses through his entire body like a flooded river before he remembers- that’s not how it happened. Disoriented, he looks around and remembers he’s at Karen’s. He’s spending the night on her couch. They’d watched a football game before she left him to get some sleep. His breathing is shallow and fast. He sits up and doubles over, face in his hands. That’s not how the night in the hospital had happened. He would never have let that happen- unless he’s just telling himself that.

It sickens him. That may not have been the way it happened, true. But he’d seen her in his crosshairs. She had been just the inconvenient barrier between him and a kill, an unknown. The concept is so alien that he can barely remember what it felt like. He hadn’t even- he hadn’t even _thought_ about this. Not since he’d apologized before his arraignment. As if that was enough, after he’d hunted her through that hospital like death itself, after he’d been the threat and not the protector. Made her feel the same fear she’d felt with Schoonover and Lewis and God knows who else in the minefield of her work and this city. As if he hadn’t already done enough then and since to guarantee himself a ticket to whichever hell is deepest. What an absolute, goddamn monstrous piece of _shit-_

“Frank?”

He startles and tries to cover for it, but his breathing is still panic-fast. He checks his watch. It’s 3:20.

“Are you alright? I heard a noise,” Karen says, her voice muffled by recent sleep but lined with concern. She’s standing at the edge of the hallway that leads to her bedroom. It’s dark in the apartment, but he can feel her eyes on him, watching him.

“I’m…” Frank struggles to form the words when he notices with a sigh that he’d knocked her mug off the side table. A constellation of broken ceramic litters the floor near the couch. “Yeah, sorry. Must have jostled the table or something.” He can feel his heart pounding in his chest so loud he worries she can hear it.

She walks toward him and sits on the arm of the couch. “Don’t worry about it, it’s just a mug,” she says as she leans over to switch on a dim lamp. She turns to look at him with a tired half-smile, but then she sees his face. _Shit._ “Frank? Are you feeling okay?”

He breathes out hard through his nose, eyes fixed blankly on the surface of the coffee table in a thousand-yard stare. His trigger finger taps at his knee. “Yeah. I, uh. Dreaming.” God, he sounds like such an asshole, complaining about bad dreams.

“Oh,” she says, quietly, looking away. “I’m sorry, I won’t pry.”

Frank snorts despite himself. “That is not something I ever thought I’d hear you say,” he says with as much amusement as he can manage, which isn’t much.

Karen huffs, but she’s only performing the exasperation for his benefit. He can tell she’s worried. “Fine- if you need to, you can tell me.”

He hesitates, not meeting her eyes. That’s probably the last thing he needs. _Hey, Karen, remember that murderer you tried to keep me from killing, that time I shot at you? Yeah? Let’s rehash that shit show. You let me shelter in your home, you give me food and rest, I dig into the parts of you that hate me and I twist the knife. How’s that for a fair trade?_ He shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“You’re sure?” she murmurs.

               He considers for a moment. Remembers their understanding: no lies, ever. Omissions, maybe, but never lies.

               “No,” he says, a whisper that grates and scrapes out of him like gravel. “Not really.” He looks up at her then, and she’s got a furrow in her brow and she’s biting her lip. Knowing her, she’s wondering how far she should push it.

  _Fuck it,_ he thinks. _She asks, I answer. She says jump…_ And if this reminds her that she should keep clear of him, he should count his blessings. (Should, but won’t. He’s selfish that way.)

“Sit down,” he says, indicating the space on the couch next to him. She does so, pulling the blanket around herself tighter once she’s settled.

               “You remember that man you were protecting in the hospital.” He sees her face harden briefly, but he continues, because it wasn’t a question. He knows she remembers. “I was there. Again. You were leaving the hospital room with him and I…” He clears his throat and forces the words out. “You weren’t safe. From me. You were… you got in the way.”

               She leans back and away from him slowly. The silence is thick as he waits. She moves, draws both knees up toward herself on the couch and adjusts, turning to face him. He holds her gaze, unblinking.

               “Frank, you know that’s not how it happened,” she says quietly. “You don’t have to feel guilty about that.”

               “But if I had hurt you-“

               “But you didn’t. You wouldn’t. I was afraid, I not going to pretend I wasn’t, but I’m fine, and I’m sitting right here, aren’t I?” she asks. His gaze flicks for just a second to the fading white scar above her left eye. He remembers with visceral clarity the moment he first saw the blood there, before he saw her breathe, his mind flaring into consciousness with a litany of _no, God, please not her._

               “Yeah, I guess you are,” he says, and the unnerving painkiller calm of it floods him again. She’s fine. She is right there, heart still beating, across from him in an apartment full of her books and the coconut scent of her Suave body wash, alive. The astonishing, miraculous, death-defying Karen Page. Scarred, fearsome, safe. 

               She smiles small and shy, reaches for his hand, and takes hold of it. “See? Right here.” He caresses the back of her hand with his thumb in one small half-moon arc. Her skin is warm and her eyes are deep blue in the dim light. For a few minutes they stay like that. There’s a brief hush in the city noise of the in-between-hours. The smile fades from Karen’s face, and Frank pulls in a worried breath- he guesses these moments of respite can only last so long for a man like him- and he starts to pull away.

               And then Karen leans toward him and presses her lips to his temple and brings her hand up to rest feather soft against his neck, and it’s all he can do to keep himself from melting into her touch, from turning to meet her lips with his own. Would it absolve him? _Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged…_ She lingers, then pulls back, drawing her hand along his chest as she does.

               “Sorry,” she whispers, and her skin flushes scarlet. “It’s late, I should…” She trails off as she reaches down to his hand again and squeezes before letting go. She stands up, whispers “good night, Frank,” and walks back to her bedroom.

 

               He’s gone in the morning.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just had to write more, even though the last chapter is also an appropriate ending for this.  
> Again, this may continue. Not fully satisfied with it.  
> (The quote is so cliche and I am sorry.)


End file.
